Boobialla

One hundred and ninety-five years later, I look out over a strip of emerald boobyallas onto a deserted nine-mile beach.

I grabbed them and splashed across the river and up the far bank, backed deep into a boobialla bush and pulled them in after me.

And remember dead boobialla branches have one aim when you are gathering them, chopping them, lopping them, splitting them, breaking them under your boot – and that aimm is to gouge out your eye, to lance your hands, to trip you up, to deflect the axe into your boot, to kill you if possible.

A vast forest of Boobialla trees, growing completely out of control, spread widely right to the very foreshore of the station.[…]At a later date, I would be responsible for clearing this boobialla with my trusty chainsaw.